There Were Crumbs
by slyprentice
Summary: It happened on a mid-week. Jack/Hatter. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: There Were Crumbs (In The Butter)  
**Author**: Prentice  
**Rating**: M  
**Fandom**: SyFy's Alice  
**Pairing**: Jack Heart/(Mad) Hatter.  
**Genre**: Vaguely AU. Pre-Series. Hurt/Comfort. Drama. Romance.  
**Disclaimer**: All property, including characters and setting, belongs to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended and no money has been made.  
**Warnings**: Pre-series. Mild Sexual Content. Violence. Dubious Consent. Recreational use of and overuse of stimulants. Unbeta'd.

**Author's Notes**: This is currently ongoing and unedited so beware of my dodgy grammar and slow updates. Also be aware that this fic is going to be vaguely AU, mostly due to the eventual relationship that develops between the Hatter and Jack Heart. More on that later, though.

**Summary**: It happened on a mid-week.

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**Chapter One**_ – An Invitation to Tea and a Bit of Light Torture_

It happened on a mid-week, a strange day on the calendar Hatter had always thought, because it was a bit too much in the middle of being the beginning of one thing and the ending of another to be worth its weight in anything other than headaches and heartaches. Nothing good ever happened to anyone on a mid-week, after all, even in a place like Wonderland – _especially_ in place like Wonderland – so when what happened happens, he's not sure what to feel other than bitter disappointment that it had to happen on a mid-week. Of all days.

"I really don't know why I let you talk me into this," Hatter declared lightly, tone every bit as conversational as it would have been if they'd been discussing this over a nice hot cup of Club's Royal Black Tea back at his tea shop. He'd have even put a generous dollop of that new emotional-mixer from the Hearts' Casino in it for them – what was it called again? _Euphoria_?

Yes, that was it: Hearts' Casino's _Euphoria_. He'd have even put _that_ in it for them, even if it was a strange bit of emotion that he couldn't understand the appeal of. The one time he'd tried it, it'd made him feel a bit too much like his favorite hat was going to float right off his head and drift away before he could catch it. He couldn't say he liked the feeling much, but it was a nice addition to the shop and kept the raging hordes coming back for more – and more and more – and that was nothing if not good business as far as he was concerned.

"I mean," he continued, blithely ignoring the quietness of his companions as they made their way along the edge of one of the many decrepit buildings, far enough away from the edge so they wouldn't fall off the sudden drop-off. "It's not as though I was sent an invitation, which is the only polite thing to do when inviting someone over for tea and a bit of light torture. In any case, I could have settled up the shop instead of rousing Dormy into a state of near mindless panic because I was leaving unexpectedly."

He sighed theatrically.

"He's very delicate, you know. Takes to fidgeting something awful when he's nervous. Or awake," he qualified dryly, "but a decent salesman all things told. I couldn't have asked for a better one."

Neither of his companions made to comment, their faces impressively, boorishly blank behind their dark sunglasses and pretentiously tailored suits, complete with embossed Aces on them. Hatter rolled his eyes. Hench-Suits of the Queen, always the same. Not a spit of personality in them.

Kicking a bit of rubble out of his way absently, he rounded the bend of the building, gaze immediately lighting on the dully gleaming hull of a White Rabbit's Scarab flying low between the buildings, its tethers released and dangling empty. For the moment, anyway. He had no doubt they'd be in use again…soon.

Stomach clenching tightly at the sight, Hatter quickly looked away, the all-too-familiar burn of self-loathing churning in his gut. He'd known for years now that he was playing a dangerous game; dipping from both sides of the deck, hoping that a little subterfuge here, a little white lie there, would keep him relatively safe and happy, but he'd never expected to feel guilty about it. He'd never thought he'd feel like he was slowly losing himself day by day – just like everyone else seemed to be – until the only way he could feel the smallest crumbs of happiness was if they were artificially induced by one of the Queen's latest "wonders".

Therein lie the problem, though: he didn't go in for that artificial stuff. Not anymore. It made his tea taste a bit like a dirty dishrag and, even worse, made him feel like a Jabberwocky had gotten a hold of his insides and stamped on them. It had done since the first time Dodo had, grudgingly and maliciously, introduced him to a rescued Oyster, whose vacant stare had resolved itself into a soul-deep shuddering pain when she'd looked up at him, body jerking in tiny spasms of movement that were uncontrolled and entirely involuntary. It had been horrifying and sickening, watching that poor woman writhe around on the man's floor, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes as she fought against the waves of agony that resulted from being hooked to the Queen's machines for far too long.

It was like re-growing a whole new limb; the woman had explained to him much, much later, her face sweat drenched and pale. It hurt so much and sometimes you wished you didn't have to feel anything ever again, but it was worth it. To feel happiness, your own happiness, and not have to worry about someone trying to steal it away or shuck it out of you like you were nothing more than a shell to be emptied. It made even the worst of the pain worth it in the end.

It was in that moment that Hatter had realized her and all the others they managed to secret away from the Casino would be all right. Oysters were amazing creatures, after all. They were resilient and fascinating, strong and startlingly complex. He'd known that then, even if the Dodo hadn't, so the little power-play the man had arranged was appallingly callous and disturbingly tactless, especially for someone so heavily entrenched in the rebellion against the Queen.

Personal motivations was where it was at in all this, where it mattered, and though Hatter was no saint and could admit that many of his own motivations were self-serving at best, he did want to help not only his people but the Oysters as well. They deserved it. If not just because his own people – the Wonderlanders who came into his shop looking for their next big thrill; their next scrap of emotion, even if it wasn't their own – probably didn't.

And anyway, Dodo was just a dinosaur, a relic of another time, who still remembered what it was like to live in a world that was made of order and reason, with the sure knowledge that any and all emotions came from within and not from a cheap glass bottle. Hatter didn't have that luxury. He didn't remember that time, doubted he was even alive for it, and so he couldn't follow a direct path like the Dodo. Instead he took a circuitous route, coming at the problem sideways, like he did most things.

_Crumbs in the butter_, he thought morosely, sending a weary glance over his shoulder. The Suits were still there, looking dark, stupid and forbidding. Grimacing, he shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his jacket. By the cards, he hated this. Hated every last thing about it, but he was honest enough with himself to know there was nothing for it. He had to go with them, even if his right hand ached to curl into a fist and feel the crunch of bone and sinew crumple beneath it.

Old habits died hard and, anyway, he couldn't risk it. Not without landing himself into a heap of trouble so thick he wouldn't be able to find his way out again. Sighing, Hatter balled his fists once, twice, three times before sliding them out to hang loosely at his sides. A few more paces and he reached up and shifted his hat, settling it more firmly against his crown. It wasn't his favorite; he never wore his favorite during audiences with the Queen, but it was awfully nice.

It was one he'd nicked from the Dodo, in fact. Some sort of strange cap, with a brim that only covered his face, that an Oyster had been wearing when he'd come through the Looking Glass. He wasn't sure what it was called – not that he'd asked, mind you – and wasn't exactly sure where Dodo had gotten it but it was interesting.

"Is this going to take long, do you think?" He mused aloud, not really expecting an answer. "It's just that, I've got this tea shop, you see, and it needs minding." He reminded them, just in case they forgot. It was hard to tell with Suits. They were basically walking automatons.

Not enough tea without Heart Casino Mixers, he suspected. They'd forgotten to feel for themselves, which probably lead to not thinking for themselves as well. The response he wasn't expecting never came, predictably enough.

Sighing heavily, he trudged onward, rolling his shoulders so his jacket settled more comfortably. Well, if they were going to be mindlessly humdrum, he would at least ask for a spot of tea after the torture. It was the least they could do for him.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_I can only hope you all forgive me for the long update delay. This fic somehow got lost in the shuffle and I'm only now just coming back to it. The next chapter shouldn't take nearly as long so until next time, I hope you enjoy._

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**_Chapter 2_** – _The Loss of a Tea Cozy_

If anyone were to ask what it was like to be tortured – not that anyone would since it was astoundingly rude to just _ask_ something like that– Hatter would have explained it like this: being tortured was a bit like losing your favorite tea cozy, your best pair of shoes, and the newest addition to your hat collection all on the same day. It was distracting and distressing; unsettling in all the ways that losing something ever was or could be, only this time with the added downside of being as physically distressing as it was emotionally draining. Which it was, no matter how much you tried to prepare yourself or how hard you tried to believe you were "ready" for it.

Hatter liked to think that he was 'ready', mostly due to his old association with his not quite friend but sometimes partner, March. The man had been a dab hand at torture, even before he'd gone Mad, and had done his best to try and teach Hatter all the ways of distancing himself from the horror and the pain that being tormented caused. It hadn't always worked – how could it when Hatter's were such emotional creatures to begin with? – but at least he had learned a few things. Like how to be patient and silly and satisfyingly silent. Which was the whole point, really.

_'Why is a raven like a writing desk?'_ March had used to ask before slapping Hatter across the face hard enough to make him see stars. It had hurt at first and the sting of it had always brought tears to his eyes, bright shining tears that had leaked from the corners, because every time his not-friend had slapped him, he had also slapped the hat from Hatter's head. It had been enough to make him feel tiny, vulnerable, and stripped naked by a set of long fingers and a Cheshire cat's grin.

_'My dear friend,'_ March would say then, low and too soothing, before commencing in earnest the terrible torture with only a short break for tea time because, back then, what was most important to Hatter was most important to March. That was before he went mad, though. After the madness, any torture to be had went straight on through tea and ruined a few of his very best hats. Reasonably enough, Hatter had ended the not-friendship not long after that and March had fallen with ill grace into the clutches of the Queen, who was very likely the reason March had gone mad in the first place.

"The clockworks not ticking properly," Hatter uttered through gritted teeth, fingers clutching the arms of the chair the twins had strapped him to just before the torture had begun. One of them prodded at his side with an electrode, sending fits of biting pain through him and making his heart jump in his chest, skipping a beat. Not that he was worried about it. He was a Hatter, after all, and they were frightfully long-lived. Even the tortured ones. "It's off by a tick. Just a tick. Just a tick, tick, tick-tock goes the clock."

A teapot sized fist slammed against the side of his face, splitting his lip and not-quite unhinging his jaw. It made him jerk in his chair, blood welling from the cut and gliding down his chin. The taste of it slid into his mouth like salt and butter. "Tick-tock. Tick-tock."

"Oh, that was a good one," Dr. Dee – or was it Dum? – exclaimed happily. "Nearly perfect."

"Never nearly," said the other, examining his brother's work with an air of loose appraisal. "Just merely almost. Better to improve from almost merely to nearly almost. Maybe next time."

"Crumbs in the butter," Hatter garbled, staring forward absently. Green drops and purple swirls dripped upwards in the space around him. "One little, two little, three little crumbs. Not nearly enough for company."

"Next time, maybe," Dr. Dum – or was it Dee? – nodded before backhanding Hatter across the face. "Time for tea."

"Twinkle, twinkle," Hatter intoned solemnly before pressing his lips together, blood trickling down his neck and soiling the collar of his shirt. It was another non-favorite of his – red paisley with deep purple accents – but still unique and interesting. One could have even said distinctive, if it wasn't for the fact that this was how he always tended to dress. Licking his busted lip, the taste of blood and torn flesh aching inside his mouth, he closed his eyes.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat," he continued, concentrating on an old, old poem his mother had recited to him any time he'd been tired or unhappy; stretched thin from too much of one thing and not enough of another. It had soothed him then, just as it soothed him now, blurring out the edges of the pain until they were just half-remembered aches. "How I wonder what you're at, up above the world so high, like a tea tray in the sky."

There was another vicious prod into his side – a fiery shock of _pain, pain, pain_ zapping through his nerves – and then the feel of fingers, too large to be careful, grasping his chin and forcing his mouth open. Bitter liquid, the flavor of cold tea in a metal bowl, slithered over his taste buds and down his throat, burning and biting all the way down until it roiled in his stomach like a tea kettle gone mad. Oyster-anguish tore through him, familiar but not quite right, choking him far better than any hand at his throat ever could.

"Tea for time," one of the twins chortled, close enough by his side that warm breath, pungent as rotted tea leaves, fanned over his battered face. Shuddering faintly, Hatter opened his eyes, the green and purple swirls dripping up past Dee's – or was it Dum's? – shoulder. The man – twin – _thing_ in front of him smiled at him slowly, teeth so white they gleamed in the semi-darkness, before slamming a fist into his stomach hard enough to make him gag, his chair rocking beneath him.

For a moment, he teetered on the chair's back two legs, wobbly suspended in a strange tableau with the Tweedles, the Queen's favorite interrogators, before his mind seemed to catch-up and his body fell backwards – upwards? Downwards? Sideways? – and he landed in an unceremonious heap in the middle of one of the Casino's waiting room floors, chair and restraints gone. Groaning, Hatter laid there for a moment or two, disoriented and bloodied, hollowed out by grief that wasn't his, before pushing himself up onto hands and knees. It was painful to do, almost mind numbingly so, but he forced his way through it just as March had taught him to do all those years ago.

Pushing himself back onto his knees, he looked around slowly, mind still tripping and fizzing over itself. The waiting room around him looked like any other waiting room in Wonderland: plain and decorated in glorification of the Queen. Blinking watery eyes, he stared up at a long-suffering Four of Spades who stood only a few feet away, the man's expression painfully purposefully blank.

Frowning, Hatter pushed himself all the way to his feet, a rush of vertigo and nausea nearly sending him straight back down again. By the cards, he felt like he was going to lose his crumpets all over the place. Best not to, though; he didn't think he could handle another session with the twins just yet.

Swallowing thickly, the stale slippery taste of fake emotion still heavy on his tongue, he steadied himself against a nearby wall, eyes trained on the Four of Spades. The man looked – familiar, somehow. Not in a way Hatter could easily define – he saw many faces in the tea shop, some far more handsome than this one – but still, he knew that face, had seen it somewhere before.

Forcing himself to let go of the wall, he watched wearily as the Four of Spades moved closer, hands outstretched and offering him back his hat and jacket. Both were a bit crumpled, his jacket especially wrinkled, but he accepted them both gratefully, fingers smoothing over their familiar edges. He'd been half resigned to the hench-suits of the Queen uncaringly throwing them out on him but it looked like this card had saved them for him.

Nodding his thanks, he once again eyed the Spade in front of him. The man seemed all the more familiar to him up close, his auburn hair shining in the dull lights in the waiting room. Something about his face, maybe, or his eyes. They almost reminded him of – but no, that was impossible. Entirely improbable.

"I'm afraid the Queen is too busy to see you today, sir." The Four said eventually, his tone even. His eyes flicked over Hatter critically, a muscle in his jaw seeming to tighten when they landed on the blood. "Thank you for visiting the Hearts Casino. The exit is that way. Have a good day."

Shrugging on his jacket much more carefully than he normally would, Hatter watched as the Four retreated silently out the room and back to wherever good little cards made their deck. Sighing, he shook his head. He couldn't say he was entirely surprised by the Queen. Audiences with her rarely ever actually ended in audiences with her. It just wasn't the way of things in Wonderland.

Slipping his hat back onto his head, Hatter grimaced, carefully wiping a hand across his mouth. Blood stained his fingers, ruby red like the Queen's favorite roses. He snorted softly, hand falling back to his side and curling into a loose fist, battered eyes flicking almost absently to the door the Spade had disappeared into.

He hadn't even gotten to ask for a spot of tea.

What a waste of Time.


End file.
